


Weights of History

by LadyGretchen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Haunted House, Horror, One Shot, POV Second Person, Vomiting, folk horror, reader has ambigious gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 17:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGretchen/pseuds/LadyGretchen
Summary: You've known Samantha Grey a while now, but couldn't say you were close until you lost your job and she strait up offered you another one. It doesn't exactly pay well, but it comes with free housing, free breakfasts and pleasant company, so you suppose its not bad. That said, that free housing comes with the Dreams. And then there's the Voices...





	Weights of History

The night sky blazes red with fire, the scent of scorched human flesh clings to your nostrils. The dawn of a new age. Age of bloodshed, age of glory. The cities of the old age are being brought to ruin. The night rings with the shattering of a thousand glass towers and echoes with the sudden crack of overheated concrete.

At the centre of all this: a figure. Not the bringer of this new age, but a tool of a higher power. Bound in skin tight armour not quite leather and not quite steel, encased in rattling chains and a great sword impossible for a man to lift slung across its shoulders. The figure's head: crowned with great antlers. A knight of this new age... begging the question as to what the knight's master looks like.

The knight looks right at you through a scarred piece of metal that may have once been a face. A thousand voices; hissing and howling, commanding and whispering; speak-

_This is the future, your future. This is the future, your future. This is the future..._

-

You wake up, by now used to the dream. The staff here all experience different versions of the same dream every other night or so, and in all fairness you were warned about this when you were offered the job. You're told that the dreams are worse when you sleep in Grey Manor itself, and you can believe it.

Every fifth or so person in Britain believes in ghosts, and if you hang around places like the manor long enough you can see why. Whether it is because of the sheer mass of history these places have or the sense of anachronism someone used to concrete and plaster gets when they find themselves in a house furnished with smooth wood or even just as a side effect of having a big enough house: almost all of this kind of manor are charged with meaning. In there, your sight seems to echo as the manor groans under the weight of history. The feeling of vibration in an unmoving world. Every time is that silent time when your mind thinks someone's talking to you, and so starts trying to give words to the wordless air-

_and then there's the room beneath the manor. No windows, no light but candlelight, charcoal trees drawn over plaster and look what's hiding between them_

Ahem. In any case, Samantha Grey offered you this job as much because you needed help as her needing someone to sort out the spread sheets. She's one of those old school English aristocrats who end up treating their staff as a sort of extension of their family, so this sort of thing is second nature to her. She doesn't have much staff: there's you, the gardener Jeff and the maids July and Alex. You've seen worse pay for a much harsher workload, plus you get free meals and free lodgings in the old servant's building-

_Edwardian plaster over brick, only a hundred years or so of history, the past can't call to you as well here but its voice will be heard all the same_

You groan as the thousand voices of the dreams echo again in your mind. You're not going to get away from them, not today, but you suspect caffeine forces them to go quiet for a time. Already having managed to force yourself up, you throw on some clothes and a jumper before heading out. The servant's building was Edwardian and originally built for functionality, but the gentle scent of honeysuckle and roses slid into the quarters every morning whilst the ivy slithering over the walls and roof managed to disguise the building with a more cottage like look. It gazes across wind-blown fields and gnarled oak trees, meeting the glare of its older sibling.

Everyone who sees Grey Manor immediately gets the feeling that they are being watched, but are unable to really watch it back, not really. The mansion has learned to hide its heart rather well: the ivy probably slithered up the manor during the 1950s, the greenhouse is Victorian, whilst the quasi Greek pillars decorating the front porch and even the wooden interior of the house are Regency or Georgian era. But those are recent in the grand scheme of things. All of them are under 300 years old: affections and disguises the manor hides itself behind. The walls and foundations of this house are much older. All this may seem to be personifying it a little too much, but you can't help but feel that if there isn't a mind behind this place then there is certainly a kind of instinct-

_then there's the corridors and rooms Lady Grey sealed off and abandoned... all emptiness and dust. But where do the sounds of searching claws and clanking dead limbs come from?_

You sigh internally. This is going to be a long day.

-

The day was better now that the caffeine was getting to work, and the smell of egg, bacon and sausages frying probably helped: the meal awaiting you probably as unhealthy as can be and yet so bloody gorgeous. The kitchen you are in is lit by great gaping windows and dominated by a large wooden table- the only things that looks genuinely ancient here, whilst everything else merely looks outdated. There is no dishwasher, the washing machine is a 1950s off white whilst the cooker is a 1960s dark green. The metal and black plastic kettle, recently boiled, stands out like a sore thumb: a token gesture towards the 21st century.

You imagine that the Grey household had a cook once, but it has shrank in its fortunes since then: now Samantha herself tends to cook a morning meal for you all. She got up much earlier than you did, more a side effect of her time in the army than out of any real necessity. She probably spent the time getting something done in the fields, at least judging by the dried mud splattered up her trousers. Now, this should be self-evident, but thanks to the spread of... certain attitudes associating the phrase upper class with a particularly expensive sort of tastelessness it is probably important to address it. There is a definite difference between being an aristocrat and being simply wealthy. Some would say the difference is economic, with the nouveau rich-

_INSOLENT UPSTARTS! They will be broken in sacrifice: their blood will fertilize the fields their flesh will feed the birds and their deaths purify culture and_

Dammit! You thought the voices had subsided for a time. Anyway, by and large the wealth of the nouveau rich is based upon invested money, a mass of loans and stocks and agreements made in distrust built into a house of cards. By contrast, aristocrats specifically draw income from land that they have inherited, with Samantha, for example, getting money by breeding race horses and saving on as much as she can by growing most of her own food: whether that be the fruits and vegetables in the garden and greenhouse or the chickens and pigs.

This more stable source of income means that aristocrats tend to if not have a greater sense of history then certainly look at things on longer terms than anyone else. Those that know of him are amazed at Otto Von Bismark predicting that the first world war would occur over “some silly thing in the Balkans”, not to mention his role in creating a united Germany, but when it comes down to it he was simply doing what his aristocratic life had primed him for.

Now, if you were to ask Samantha herself about this difference between wealth and aristocracy she'd probably suggest something along the lines of history and culture. It goes something like this: most of the land in England is still owned by the same families that backed William the Conqueror in 1066. Modern sociologists often view culture as a kind of external memory, in which case aristocrats can be defined by the massive amount of imperfect memory their families have gathered in all that time.

Perhaps there is truth in both these theories, but whatever the case aristocracy leaves a mark on a person in a way that mere wealth doesn't. Right now, Samantha is wearing mud stained trousers and a red-brown padded jacket with her tangled blond hair tied into a rough pony tail. But in spite of her not honestly caring about signalling her wealth... her aristocracy shines through. It's in her body language and her voice: no matter how friendly she is there is always a kind of distance to her. The word that comes to mind is “fey” or perhaps “elfish”-

_Ah- a telling choice of words there. Have you ever wondered where the old stories of fairies and fair folk come from? Or why it’s polite to refer to them as “the Gentry”?_

You try to ignore your now aching head: looking up to see Samantha holding out your breakfast and offering a wince in sympathy. There was a time when she would apologize for the voices, but at this point both of you know that an apology is basically pointless. After all, you're going to get a lot closer to the voices soon enough.

-

Now, the basement, or at least one of them. You’re not sure how many rooms are hidden beneath this manor, but if the Greys ever did make some deal with some ancient power it happened here. Not that you think that the Greys ever did consciously make a deal. From what you have already seen, you have the feeling that these... presences grew mould-like in the shadows cast by the house of Grey, and only in its decline are they making themselves heard.

Carefully following Samantha down the narrow stairs down, only pausing as the room's unmoving stale air hits you, you carry an old fashioned lantern into the empty darkness. The candlelight reaching beyond its cage of metal and glass can't really be said to light the room in the sense you are used to.

Perhaps this is closer to how ancient humans felt when carrying light into the shelter of caves. Its common to instinctively think of the light as bringing some kind of rationality to the unknown spaces hidden in the dark, banishing the monsters our imagination summons into these spaces. With this lantern, our reason can only extend a little: desperately crawling inch by inch over the now still images of abstract shadow forests painted over the walls. Outside of the lanterns gaze, reason is forced to sleep and, well-

_we all know what the sleep of reason births don't we?_

You restrain a gasp as the first trickle of voices comes back. Samantha has now moved to the edge of your lantern's light. She noticed you, and is pretending not to be disturbed by it. This whole thing bothers her: her upbringing has taught her how to hide it well, but you've known her long enough to see through the performance of calmness she puts on. Even in this light, you can tell that she's trying not to shudder, to let her horror at what is about to happen bleed out.

Samantha lets out a sigh, then takes a deep breath and begins moving her lips. Muttering, too quiet for you to really here anything. Her movements shift again, bringing her mutters up to a fiery roar only... only you don't hear anything. Samantha is howling and shouting like something between a fire and brimstone preacher and an angered beast, but the sound is not meant for you. Looking to where she is speaking, you sense something. This nothing as simple as seeing or hearing in this case: it’s like the meaning you feel in Grey Manor, ghost sensations giving you the impression of something big taking up an empty space.

A moment. And then...

You're on your hands and knees. Every moment is a struggle not to vomit as the smell of bloody bones and rotting flesh courses back and forth through you. The air is thick with the smell of death, choking with the scent of rot, and must have been like this for a while. It must be the same room, you haven't moved. Even though the room has been replaced with an endless dull red glow, and the silence replaced with a din of metal on bone this has to be the same room. The same room... viewed at an angle to reality as you knew it-

_yes that's about right. Now perhaps you could look us in the eyes?_

You try. Halfway between gasping for more air and retching upon it, you find that you are not alone. You try to look up from their boots and tattered uniforms, into the empty sockets where once they had eyes. But you can't. As your eyes wander over the half bared bloody bones, you find yourself on your hands again, trying to get some control over your body.

You look over to where Samantha once stood. She still has some presence here, but only as a shadow, an echo of the real her. You're going to have to do this alone.

You swallow, and shuddering with sickness you look up again...

Over the first rank hiding their dead features with the caps and long coats of the Great War-

_a war fought for the powers of money by the children of history, the aristocracy was devastated as a generation raised to lead from the front went up against machine gun batteries-_

past the next ranks dressed in red and khaki-

_aristocrats are historically a martial people. Adam Smith loathed us, until he was at war with Johnny Foreigner and suddenly he was happy to have us save his cowardly hide-_

and towards metal armour, their wearers seemingly unhindered by having been made dust-

_the first son becomes an heir, the second joins the Church, and what other course is there for the third son than to take up the lance and win glory for his family's name?_

There are many. Even if you could count them all, you are nowhere near in the right state of mind to do so. And all of them are looking at you. And as one, they speak:

_Lady Samantha does what she does for us. You will serve as her knight for us. We are history. We are the dead. Once we reigned in the minds of all men, now only a few. We will be honoured. We will reign once again in the minds of men. The modern will fall to us. We are history, and our time is at hand-_

\- and then the room has changed again. No, that is the wrong way to describe it. You have been in all three versions of the room all this time, you're simply perceiving it properly. From this angle, the room is far more pleasant. The air feels fresher, the darkness less hostile. The environment allows you to stand properly. Where the dead once stood now only stands the hint of faces in tree bark, the sign of movement in the corner of your eye. Samantha has disappeared completely. But in that space she was addressing...

There is light. The kind of blinding light that you see when gazing up through the canopy of a dark forest. You can only see the thing's silhouette, and even then you can't seem to get a good perspective on it. Arms of a giant, antlers of the greatest deer, wings like a swan.

You try to look around. The rest of the room has dwindled away to almost nothing, giving you the impression of a tunnel. And the light at the end-

_I have been meaning to talk to you._

The voices are back, but one is definitely dominant here. If there is some kind of centre... no, some kind of keystone to the presence in Grey Manor, it is this. You look as directly at it as you can, before starting:

“What are you?”

_History_

“No, I mean, what are you?”

_I am the Romans giving flowers and food to sate their dead. I am Norsemen looking to the sky and hoping that their ancestors smile upon them. I am the knight hoping to bring glory to his family's name. I am history._

“What do you want?”

_To be raised to esteem once again in the minds of men._

You think a moment.

“What do the dreams mean?”

_They are the future. Your future._

“Is there any way to stop this?”

You immediately regret saying that out loud. Perhaps fortunately, when the voice speaks again, it sounds more amused than anything else.

_Perhaps you could. Lady Samantha could not. She ran away to the army to get away from us, but she heard our voices all the same. She will become your Queen, and you her knight. She will reign over the new world._

The light, already blinding, grows in intensity, this version of the room disappearing into it. It is the end, but the voice gets one more comment in:

_Of course, you could always just kill her._

You wake to a taste of acid in your mouth and a burning in your throat. You are being nursed in Samantha's arms, having been carefully removed from a pool of vomit. The lantern is still lit, the air merely stale, and all is silent. Now you are safe, Samantha's worry disappears once again under her performance of calm, like she knew what she was doing all the time.

You're groggy, and breathing in the stale air mixed with the scent of stomach acid probably isn't helping with it. In spite of that, the last amused words of the voice still echo in your mind.

_You could always just kill her._

-

You sip the medicinal tea Samantha made for you, internally debating whether you should question her about what happened to you or avoid the topic by hiding within your work. You have been down to the room with Samantha before, but had never before experienced anything that intense. Normally, it would just be slightly spooky, with Samantha taking the brunt of the presence's attention.

Now? You’re still feeling delicate from the experience: your belly and head swing between telling you that you're going to get better and telling you that you'll probably need to get a bucket. Fortunately, you're now in the kitchen again. A quick run on the off-chance that you need some air.

Samantha is with you. Now, were you to ask her, she'd tell you that she's preparing some spicy tomato soup for lunch for the rest of the week. This is basically normal: carving up tomatoes and chillies and vegetables galore before making enough soup to last the week is a normal part of Samantha's life. Then again... you haven't been able to catch her yet, but you swear that she keeps looking back to you. Keeping an eye on you. Making sure you're okay. She always has treated her staff as an extended family: her first impulse is to act like the motherly older sister they never had.

Not that she'd admit it of course. This kind of paternalism may be her first instinct, but at the same time she is just about politically correct enough to know that knowingly doing this can be seen as condescending. Would she shy away from a discussion about the room in the same way?

_You could always just kill her._

In your state, you're not sure whether the words you hear are the voices coming back a second time or just you revisiting a particularly vivid memory. What you experienced in the room isn't going away, not yet. But perhaps Samantha could give you a little more... clarity on it. You're not sure if she'll answer you, but all things considered, asking a question is probably worth it.

“The... voices in the room... they said they were history-”

You sound weaker than you would have liked. You're almost glad when Samantha cuts you off.

“Yes, well, I'm not sure how literally they mean it.”

She stops, but this only leaves a silence that demands an elaboration. She lets the silence hang a moment, then starts again:

“The Romans used to give offerings of food and flowers and even blood in order to revere and placate their ancestors. I think the presences in this manor are much closer to that than anything: old things annoyed at not having been properly respected.”

“I think they want a bit more than food and flowers.”

“Oh, they're just rattling their sabres. They will learn to accept the time and attention we give them.”

A lie... but more to herself than anyone else. Whatever you contacted in that room, it wanted a lot more than Samantha was offering. It wasn't exactly trying to hide its motivations. The only question is why it would risk suggesting that you kill Samantha...

Oh. Wait a minute.

Let's look again at the presence's troubles with Samantha: she won't give it what it wants. Consider this: if someone were to try to kill her, the presence would be able to warn her just in time and maybe drag her closer to its way of thinking. Between this warning and Samantha's army training, she would probably survive and the would-be assassin would be an acceptable loss.

It sounds paranoid, but isn't it a little too convenient that the presence decided to tell you how to stop it? And even if it did so because it thought you weren't a threat, then wouldn't it basically spin any attack on Samantha into this kind of plan anyway?

Will Samantha eventually go along with their plan if you don't kill her? You once heard that you should figure out what is moral by thinking about how future generations will judge you, but that is nothing compared to being judged by the past. History only remembers few of each generation, but all those little people those few depended on fade away, leaving the few standing taller than any human could ever hope to match. Can Samantha really resist that?

Your train of thought rushes onwards, eventually hitting on the real question here. Forget all the possible plans of the presence, forget all the people that would die if you fail and forget all the other suitably abstract questions or distant issues.

Do you have the stomach to kill someone who not only doesn't want to hurt anyone, but has gone very far out of their way to help you?

-

The scent of burning has lost its life: there's nothing actively on fire, but flames always leave a shadow of what they once were behind. The twisted steel skeletons that once belonged to buildings still stubbornly stick out of the ground, and your squires crawl over them like army ants: tearing off chunks of metal to be used in your Queen's forges. Your Queen’s kiss and the ways of the Powers she rules on behalf off have brought a glade and forest spilling forth where there was once concrete, and your fellow knights are already preparing a hunting party. Their prey were once the ruling powers of this land, but stripped naked and ordered to run they are just another beast to be run down and butchered- sport for the knights and a feast for their manor’s cooking pots.

Human sentimentalism demands that there was some kind of last stand or heroic resistance against you, but let’s be blunt, there was nothing of the sort. There was barely even a fight. Not surprising really. There has always been a gap between reality as perceived by people and reality as it actually is. It had widened somewhat in the time before your Queen's, to the extent that those men that think on such things described “reality” as a shared delusion. To understand how the old world talked about wealth and power, money and the things brought with it, you had to share in that delusion.

This of course, suited your Queen's guiding presences perfectly. It was like your experience in that room oh so long ago. These presences are elites, and like all elites, they almost unconsciously impose their own perspectives on the world. Once properly summoned, they merely shifted the angle from which the old world perceived itself, and it fell apart without your help.

It turns out, that your Queen could not resist the call of history. And neither could you. History has left its mark upon you, changed you to suit its needs. You’re not sure where you stop and you’re armour begins, flesh and leather and steel have blurred together whilst antlers burst from your helm and great chains bind you in spirit to your Queen’s power. You are told that you are bound by duty to marry and make children to serve in your Queen's armies, but you've changed so much that you are not sure if that is possible.

This is the future. Your future.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was my second attempt to actually get something published for actual money, but whereas my first one received a polite "good, but not what we're after" response this one didn't receive that. As I don't think I'm going to be making any money from it any time soon, I figured that I may as well pop it up here. I hope a tale of the horrors of reactionary... somethings... haunting a manor and causing the end of the world.


End file.
